Photo: 1950 International L50, Moscow, Idaho.
There she sat in a crumbling garage as if standing guard over the old abandoned farm. Rusted metal, faded paint, and sagging bumpers; I could only imagine how sexy she must have been in her day. Worn out and tired, she was dressed like an old country gal with her mudflaps on and wooden flatbed at her back. I stood there admiring her last stand. The hands of time and neglect had left her exposed to harsh elements; though she had weathered well considering. She was a true classic. The roomy cab that had sheltered her once adoring farmer smelled of engine oil, chewing tobacco, and a slight trace of hay. I wondered if she ever thought of him as she peered out from her stall. Waiting. Time passing. But he fails to come again. As I looked through her shattered windshield I could only imagine all the things that she had witnessed in her time. Oh the weight she must have carried on her back. The bumpy roads. The endless miles on her well-worn tread. Up before dawn, her engine would purr even in the harshest of winters. She had a job to do and she must have done it well. This tired old truck with her right eye gone and broken axle in the back had earned her time to rest.